Been playing around with this idea for a while, will ideally relocate this to the SC subforum when it opens. In the meantime feel free to play around with the values. I imagine that with the right points cost these would be right at home.

‘Maras’, ‘the evil ones, feminine, as they were christened in the first report of its kind made by a tribe of primitives at the edge of the Calix system. Maras are the dark mirror of our Crusaders in more way than one: whereas a Crusader comes from a singular origin, born and raised into an atmosphere of piety and sacrifice, Maras can come from anywhere – and they do.

While we may never understand what it takes to make a woman turn from humanity to embrace kinship with monsters we have ample records of what happens when they do. Cultists, gangers, sociopaths, the poor and downtrodden, law enforcement, planetary military and Imperial Guardswomen alike make their way to the site of initiation and there they do battle.

Only the youngest, strongest, the brightest and the best trined make it because each bout is to the death and the warrior who is wounded once rarely survives her next encounter. The end result is always the same: blood is shed, the archfiends of humanity induct fresh blood into their ranks, and the Dark Gods laugh.

Unfortunately for humanity, the advantages of becoming Maras are numerous. Immediately after initiation a Maras is fitted with power armor gauntlets and gorget. The armor’s enhanced servos allow the Maras to carry and fire her issued bolt-carbine as redily as any grint can handle a shotgun. In time the archfiends’ greatest servants may find themselves rewarded with more complete sets of armor to carry on the Great War. Others may strike out on their own with results much the same, and others still may find themselves the recipients of different, stranger gifts…

Regardless, even the lowliest Maras serving as her Gods’ obvious pawn and plaything considers suchlots in life as an improvement. They know the laser weapons commonplace amongst the trillions of humanity intimately and they have seen the effect of bolt weaponry on flak armor firsthand. So long as battlefield attrition takes ten ordinary troopers for every one of the archfiend, while every squad serves as glorified meat shields keeping the plasmagun trooper alive, until such time as the technology of defense finally catches up with our potential for destruction… I fear we will not see the end of this trend in our lifetimes.

“If one may be forgiven for holding unpopular opinions then by all means suffer me to express mine: our biker squads make no sense. The Astartes, superhuman warriors all, armed and armored to the teeth, are wasted on them. Their mobility is wasted, their strength in melee unused, their accuracy limited by their forward fixed weapons or else their range is limited to whatever they may carry in one hand. Consider in contrast the alternative: their aim and rate of fire are improved by fixed bolters firing twin-linked. Consider her average weak spot, the abdominal profile is reduced or rendered untargetable through regular operation of the vehicle. If nothing else my Lords consider the bikes: one man, seven feet tall, encased in 400 pounds of plasteel and adamantium. We have to custom build an all-terrain cycle capable of handling that weight and handling at top speeds for each and every one! Consider then the average maras: five foot four and one hundred thirty pounds on average and their power armor is just another thirty added on evenly with no need for weight reinforcement or redistribution. To build a Maras a proper bike we need only fit bolters and reloading mechanisms onto any motorcycle we can loot of the street. Lighter frames and lighter engines reaching the sae speeds and fulfilling the same purpose – delivering sustained bolter fire to wherever we need it. If it’s a matter of troop delivery we have other, better options. If it’s about rider survivability I grant your oint though again I’d suggest granting them a proper helmet might yield comparable results here as well. But I beg you, if the issue is one of the marriage of firepower, mobility and maneuverability let us go with the reliability, sustainability, repairability, replaceability, engineering and premotheum-guzzling friendly option. Let us train amazons!”

-Techgineer apostle Crommell, before his promotion to logistician-general.

Mutation is widespread among the forces and equipment of the Enemy but few cases are as intriguing or as uniform in their manifestation as the case of the Sirins, warriors originally mistaken as furies cults.

While most weapons and equipment distort after prolonged exposure to the Ruinous Powers Sirin jump packs are unique in that the equipment itself has become possessed by lesser daemons. Though each case is unique two trends are commonplace as to be universal:

First) Like ornery machine spirits Sirins refuse to power up for anything other than a female of great beauty. Further, in battle a Sirin will deliberately deviate to engage other flying infantry, especially Celestians, Icariates, Angels and Valkyries. It is for these vainglorious displays of jealousy that Maras have come to call the spirits inhabiting Sirins as ‘termagants’.

Second) whatever its original machinery (jet, anti-grav or blast turbine) a possessed jump pack will distort until flight is achieved primarily through daemonic wings.

Sirin’s riggings also transform with widely different results: some remain as attachments to fasten to suits of power armor, some develop body harnesses molded to their users so form-fitting as to render all armor makes incompatible, and finally some develop into a cuirass the rival of any artificer plate. Such Sirins become highly sought-after presuming, naturally, that the harness has not become parasitic. In such cases the Sirin will have fused with its host body and co-opted control of her gauntlets, greaves and boots until the user is reduced to a puppet. More than a few Sirins serve as hosts to emaciated skeletons with bleached white skulls. For this reason Maras will often choose a less developed Sirin to convey them into battle even if it leaves them relatively unprotected.

When Brother Axilus, favored of the Omnissiah and blessed of the Obliteration Cult approached his master, the warlord Mandragora, scourge of Talth, survivor of Apex and unquestioned leader of this warband of World Eaters, he realized he was reusing positions that had been presented hundreds of times before: “I need equipment, I need tools, I need schematics, and I need raw materials.”

Mandragora sat on his command throne, silent and immobile. If he’d been an ordinary Khornate Axilus would have long since abandoned him for better masters but Mandragora had been mutating in the decades since assuming control of this scattered band of survivors. Who knew what thoughts might occur to his inhuman mind?“When you last came to me you spoke thus. At the time you had also said ‘I cannot do this alone.’ Was it not so?”

“Indeed. The mechanic and the armorsmith serve. They’re not enough.”

“A problem I commonly hear…”

Axilus hesitated. Was that it? Was he being dismissed?

“Brother,” Mandragora continued “I present to you the spoils of our last operation. One hundred slaves were taken, I grant you thirty.”

“I do not need slaves Warlord.” It was a generous offer, as high as Axilus might obtain from Mandragora, but it wasn’t what he needed. He was trying not to appear ungracious.

“Axilus, of all who serve me your share is the highest. This is not an accident. To the rest I give piecemeal because all they bring I the use of their weapons. To you I grant much because you create our weapon.”

Axilus left now, knowing he’d been properly dismissed this time. As he left he seethed, irritated that his personal survival required Mandragora, his ship and his crew. He had problems enough using his body to manufacture power cells, ammunition, laser focusing lenses and superheated plasma capacitors. If it wasn’t for him Mandragora’s warband would’ve been reduced to swinging clubs and hurling stones years ago. And all he had to show for it was a gaggle of slaves. “These promises told by an idiot, full of sound and fury and their value is nothing.” He muttered aloud, echoing a sentiment laced with a personal eccentric manifestation paraphrasing prehistoric prose. “Slaves: Most likely none of which had ever held a spanner in their lives…

That’s when it hit him.

(two months later)Axilus watched on while his minions the armorer and the machinist held his test subjects in check. Less than a third of his prisoner property had accepted his terms – pledge eternal fealty to him and power the likes of which they’d never imagined would be theirs. When he was done he’d expose them all to the process anyway, pumping his ichor into their veins, running their blood through his hearts. His legacy, the machine virus had spread through all of them.

Now only four survived of those who vowed loyalty to him. Those four, and the loudest, stubbornnest, the strongest of those slaves who had refused him. It was she who received the worst of his attention and to date it was she who’d proven the most capable. It was infuriatingly intoxicating.

“Oh but I see Queen Mab hath been with thee, a waif so tiny as to pass unnoticed by anyone, yet it is she who whispers into ears promises inspiring and beguiles all those who hear her to pursue their particular craft with renewed ambition and reckless abandon their heads fitted with blinders that leave them focused on naught but the reward and unaware of the perils and the pounds to be collected from their flesh were they to fail. She is e’er too sweet to be mistaken for daemon and foul to be confused for mortal, bringing ruin and hope in equal measure.”

He rather admired her.

“Too uncertain for a man to hitch his hopes upon you blindly, yet too rewarding, too valuable, too powerful too write off as unworthy of investment entirely. Will you be my blessing or my ruin… have I room to choose otherwise?”

“Mab. Is that who I am or what I am now?” She asked, her voice a loudspeaker transmitting scrap-code only he had the cogitators to understand. All while her hands, wrists and forearms shifted to assemble into heavy lasers, gatling cannons, chemical flamethrowers and missile launchers.

“If you chose to be.” He answered.

“All choice is an illusion.” She scoffed.

“Correct. This is what you are and we are the only ones who would make use of you. You can present yourself to the rest of common humanity and let yourself be destroyed or you can do whatever it takes to keep living.”

Her targeting reticles fixated on the armorer and the machinist. Before she could do anything he interrupted. “Have a care with our minions. The machinist is the closest thing to a medic you will find for yourself and the armorer…” he paused and she looked down to her bare chest. She could feel it, her body had developed and exoskeleton of machinery about her limbs, head and spine and like a beetle she’d been left with a soft underbelly. “…Is the only one here who can make something compatible with your unstable physiology capable of protecting your exposed bits.”

She roared in frustration and when she did her arm shifted into a projection cannon and star-hot bioplasma roared with her.

“Good.” Axilus said to his minions as they rose from behind cover. “Get busy, I expect the other four to begin acclimation and training with their new weapons immediately.”

As he left he added as an afterthought “and get to work on making her armor. A plasteel chainmail apron will do for a start.”

“Your orders boss.” The armorer answered. Turning to the machinist he said. “Okay. We work some Mabs.”

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